Ntraholic [v4.2.2c] [tiramisu] __link__ -
He retreated to his darkroom—the only space she never entered. There, he pinned his photos to the wall: Marin smiling at her phone, Marin getting into Renji’s car, Marin’s new dress discarded on the floor of their bedroom (he’d found it there after she claimed to be “at the gym”). The photos formed a storyboard of betrayal. He wasn’t a husband anymore. He was a documentarian of his own cuckolding.
The last line of the game’s epilogue text appeared on the screen, in Tiramisu’s signature small, sans-serif font:
Marin’s smile had always been a small, private thing—a delicate curve that Natsuki had fallen in love with three years ago. They were the perfect couple in the eyes of their quiet Tokyo suburb: he, a steady salaryman with a passion for photography; she, a part-time librarian with a voice as soft as the rustle of pages. Their apartment was small, but it was filled with his framed photos of her, each one a testament to a love he thought was unshakable. ntraholic [v4.2.2c] [tiramisu]
Three months later, Natsuki’s photo—titled “The Cuckold’s Light”—won an underground art prize. Renji had moved on to a new target. Marin had moved out. Alone in the darkroom, Natsuki developed a new roll of film. It was all empty rooms. Doorways without people. Shadows where lovers used to stand.
His name was Renji. To Natsuki, he was a ghost at first—just the sound of a door closing at odd hours, the faint smell of expensive cologne in the elevator. But to Marin, Renji became a problem that arrived in a tailored suit. He was a freelance “talent scout,” his business card as vague as his intentions. He first approached her at the building’s coin laundry, commenting on a novel she was reading. Natsuki was away on a business trip. That was the first crack. He retreated to his darkroom—the only space she
He didn’t sleep that night. He watched the “Corruption” meter in his mind’s eye rise from 15% to 22%.
And somewhere in the code of the game, a new “Corruption” counter began to rise again—this time, for the player. He wasn’t a husband anymore
Natsuki raised his camera. The auto-focus whirred. Through the lens, Marin and Renji looked like a painting—two figures in a gallery of betrayal. He pressed the shutter. Click.